


Showgirl

by high_life



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 00:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_life/pseuds/high_life
Summary: “Then why the song and dance, Mr. Bell?” The moustache twitched again above her. “I thought you left that business to me.”She felt this laugh in particular through his body, pressed up against the back of the chair.“Ohhh, I like that one.” Leather squeaked as his thumb inched up her chin. “Came up with that all by yourself, did you now?”She needn’t had to bother, because she was sudden butter in the summer sun with the scent of leather against her bottom lip and teeth nipping at her neck and an arm pulling her out of her chair.





	Showgirl

 

 

 

“Why are you _paintin_ ’ yourself up all like?”

There was a shuffle of the newspaper held by two, weathered hands, a white hat just visible perched atop chin length, blonde hair. It had probably - for _once_ \- been freshly washed that morning.

Something told her so.

“You know why.”

He sat, she regarded, with legs out either side, the gold of his spurs glinting in the dim light of her room and boots far shinier than usual.

It was a warm evening. The kind where fireflies buzzed around her window with the low hum of the street life below, the city folk taking keen advantage of the summer air. Sometimes she would stroll along the long boulevards on nights like this, only one petticoat peaking out from her dress as the breeze would lift just slightly past her ankles. She would feel free, _dangerous_. Skirting the corners of society.

“Hmmm,” Came the noise of displeasure from behind her. “Ain’t my type’a _style_ \- “ The newspaper flipped down to reveal a moustached face, touched gingerly with faded freckles. “ - better the devil to see you as nature _intended_.”

He laughed; his strange type of laugh that burst quickly from his lips with a wild look in his eyes. She could imagine his prey cowering if he had one of his red engraved pistols aimed squarely at their face alongside. But never at her.

Unless she _asked_ , of course.

“My audience may be the dredge of society, Mr. Bell, but they _ain’t_ the devil and unfortunately they expect a little showmanship.”

Another chuckle of bemusement sounded, the corners of lips hidden below the equally blonde moustache quirking and twitching as she watched his reflection, framed perfectly within the ornate lighting of her stage mirror.

She took a moment, then, to drink in his form; faded black trousers, tattered slightly across the thighs from what she guessed were days spent upon his horse, or maybe where he lay his knife to sharpen it - she had watched him do so once sprawled out on her bed, boots dirtying her sheets, the rhythmic sound of metal scraping and fingers deftly feeling for the perfect _slice_. A buttoned up black shirt then poked out smartly from a red waistcoat, and there had been a tailored, double breasted leather jacket but it was long since removed in the warmth of the muggy night.

An outlaw dressed up.

“Oh, pray tell Miss,” he began, newspaper tossed to her bed as boots clinked to the ground, thudding slowly across the rug. “What would we be without a little show, _hmm_?”

The scruffy man had a way of enunciating each of his words as they were sharply pushed over his tongue, colliding in the air with a country accent she could never quite place. _Virginia? Kentucky?_

Grey eyes flicked over her body as leather gloved hands came to rest either side of her dressing chair.

His scent began to drift over her almost immediately.

Usually he smelt of tobacco, the earth, three day old whiskey, burnt edges. Gunfights outside the glittering lights of Saint Denis, blood from people she didn’t care to know but always wondered how, why, when. **Excitement**. A world she didn’t know. A _dangerous_ world.

But there was something different now, that mingled with the familiar, and she found herself inhaling _just_ slightly.

 

“Oh oh _oh_ ,” there was the breathy laugh again. It was warm against her ear as he leant close, the chair creaking and the brim of his white hat shadowing her from the lights. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

“You bought something?”

Closer.

“I _stole_ somethin’.”

She could practically feel the outline of his smirk on her skin.

“For little old me?” Lips hovered above her neck and she couldn’t help herself, hand snaking up to run fingers through the edges of his hair and - _oh_ , he _had_ been freshly washed.

The thought excited her more than she cared to admit.

“Yes, for _little ol’ you!_ ” He mimicked back into the nape of her neck before raising his eyes to hers. “There’s still good in this body, Miss - but is that _really_ what you want from me?”

Air hitched in her throat as her skin prickled under a single, leathered finger, tracing her jaw line. It stilled for a moment, then was joined by the warmth of his hand that delicately wrapped around her neck.

“Hm?” He questioned. “A nice feller that’s gonna treat you _just_ right.”

Fingers tightened and she found herself gasping, _delighting_ in the pressure on her throat.

“Oh, we _both_ know that ain’t what you _want_ ,” The outlaw let the word drawl out before puncturing it with a chuckle low in his throat.

Her body buzzed with trepidation - every nerve set alight - knowing what would come next. She’d been here before. She _reveled_ in it. There was always the push, the _pull_ with him, like she was a bird caught under his feline claws just waiting until he _devoured_ her.

But there was still some flap left in her wings yet.

Slowly, ever so slightly, she tipped her head to the side under the warmth of his grip, exposing her neck, and watched as his eyes flashed in the reflection. Hunger. _Controlled_ hunger.

“Then why the song and dance, Mr. Bell?” The moustache twitched again above her. “I thought you left that business to me.”

She felt this laugh in particular through his body, pressed up against the back of the chair.

“Ohhh, I like that one.” Leather squeaked as his thumb inched up her chin. “Came up with that all by yourself, _did you now_?”

She needn’t had to bother, because she was sudden butter in the summer sun with the scent of leather against her bottom lip and teeth nipping at her neck and an arm pulling her out of her chair.

With force - but softer than the strength he reserved for opponents - he propelled her towards the bed, her body bouncing amongst the feathered, pink-laced pillows before a knee was quickly placed between her opened thighs.

His mouth was fast, hot against hers and she willingly gave him entrance, finding the familiar tang of tobacco on his tongue. She could feel the breath sucked in through his nostrils and she knew he was already _there_ , completely overtaken with her and it was _thrilling_.

The man had years on her - how many she could never quite pin down - but there was something about the way his skin had aged with the weather, his hair blonde under the sun, his clothing thick with the dust of years of riding. She knew he wasn’t a _good man_. Far from it. And she didn’t want anything to do with him outside their infrequent meetings. But there was a magnetism, an electricity in the air whenever she had been in his presence. He wasn’t the rugged, traditionally handsome cowboy she had seen the other girls in the theatre throw themselves at whenever they rode through town. No, he was the man that leant against the wall, eyes narrowed, tongue sharp and spiteful. Mysterious. _Dangerous_.

And she _wanted_ it.

Lips broke from hers and she took the fleeting pause to knock the white, bullet-holed hat from his head and dig her fingers into the blonde locks she desperately wanted to pull at.

“ _Oh_ \- “ Came the strangled sound at first, before quickly covered with a dark, sharp laugh. “ - fiesty little thing!”

Her wrists were seized and wretched above her head in one swoop and then his mouth was on hers again and she couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ stop the moan that hummed low in her throat.

Thankful for once that she hadn’t dressed completely for her show, the outlaw’s hands soon crept up her single skirt and nipped and grabbed at her thighs, leaving marks she would only have to explain to herself come morning. She squirmed under the heat of his touch, her tongue trapped around his, before he briefly uncuffed her wrists and the offending leather was tossed to the ground.

She sighed against him when she finally felt his calloused hands on her. He was never one for a soft touch, but then she was never one for romance; not with the way he gripped her skin and bit at her lip and made her _beg_ him to continue, to not leave her strewn across the bed high and dry before going on stage. He had done it before just for the _sick pleasure_ of seeing her catch his face in the front row, lips still glistening.

Fingers now pried and pulled at her drawers and with one hand pressing her wrists together, the other tugged with undignified force until the laces gave and the fabric fell to her knees.

The night air brushed over her suddenly exposed skin and she was moaning again into his mouth.

“ _Tell_ me,” he growled lowly between a sloppy capture of her lips. “Use them _words_ , girl.”

She could see his point of no return now, his eyes lidded with lust and voice grumbling deep in his chest with each word dripping with forceful insistence.

When she could only manage a soundless gape of her mouth, fingers found her slit and her folds were pushed back, his thumb pressing at her.

Electricity shot through her like a whip crack.

“ _Take me_ \- “ she gasped out and she felt she could almost peak right there and then with his body hot against hers and his clothing rough on her skin. “- _Use me_ \- “

The grip around her wrists tightened.

She was sure he was going to say something else, to tease and prickle her with his sharp tongue, but his fingers withdrew suddenly from her slick skin and clasped around his buckle, shifting until he was free.

When he pressed against her, legs hoisted over high on his shoulders, she felt her entire body _arch_ into the feeling and a long sigh left her, muscles contracting and relaxing rhythmically until he was fully sheethed inside her.

She knew his shape well now; not long, but thick where it counted, and it was the brief moments like this that she could fully appreciate just how perfectly she felt stretched, _filled_.

His form stilled above her as he breathed in deep through his nostrils. For once, it almost seemed as if he was taking in the moment, feeling the way he throbbed inside her.

But then came the _real_ excitement.

Hips withdrew from hers, one hand finding her neck, and then every ounce of air was pushed from her body as he snapped forward.

“Dirty little _whore_ ,” he snarled.

_SLAP_ went his hand against her exposed buttocks, once, _twice_.

Over and over he pushed into her and with every stroke that hit her back walk she groaned, merciful to the deep angle he had created with her legs. His thighs were powerful against hers, hardened from years on horseback and fighting, and she could feel the muscles tensing with each piston into her.

“I bet you _like_ bein’ my plaything - c’mere - “

As sudden as his pace had started, hands roughly grabbed her middle and she cried softly as his hardness slipped from her. She was twisted and turned until he positioned her on all fours, her reddening cheeks presented to him and her head pressed into a pillow.

_SLAP_

“- Now there’s a _good girl_ \- “

She moaned as he filled her again and his hands grabbed for her perfectly prepared hair and suddenly she didn’t care anymore, didn’t care that she had a show in less than an hour, that she needed to be on stage smiling at the audience, skirt ruffled with the colours of the french flag and cheeks red with powdered rouge.

All she knew was the feeling of his hand gripping her hips, nails digging into her flesh, her entrance already wonderfully sore, the clink of his belt buckle cold against her skin.

“Please - _please_ \- “ She thought she might have heard herself whine.

Another loud crack of his palm connecting with her skin sounded in return.

“Please - _Mr. Bell_ \- “

Satisfied, he leant close and pushed himself as deep as he could into her warmth.

His hips rolled into her with such force that she found her hands curling into the bed linen, digging in to grip herself against his onslaught. She gasped, moaned, _writhed_ under him, knowing they were probably being much too loud and unbecoming and what would the other girls think once she saw them on stage? That she let an outlaw have his _way_ with her? She wanted it, _craved_ it. Craved the danger, the excitement, the reality that his gun belt was shucked off and left at her door and he could use those red-engraved pistols anytime he wanted.

Hands reached for her head and pushed her firmly into the plush of the pillows.

“You wanna be my _woman_ \- “ he growled. “ - that it?”

Free from his grip, she grabbed for his thighs, feeling the course, blonde hair, before delving between them and capturing the taunt skin that rocketed forward with each snap of his hips.

She had him now.

The outlaw cursed sharply above her in sudden pleasure.

“- _minx_ \- !”

Hips erratically pushed deep in her and then she was _there_ , careening over the edge, seeing stars and fireworks and lit up colors against her squeezed shut eyes and every fibre of her body tingling all at once.

His thickening length was quickly pulled from her heat and with a guttural groan he _painted_ her.

Hot, sharp spurts splayed across her back and she felt marked, _taken_.

Alive.

She felt shuddering arms remove themselves from around her body and the outlaw collapsed beside her, his panting breath matching hers in almost rhythm. At some point she realised she had been frozen to the spot, hips high in the air, and she slowly, gently let herself fall against the plush of the bed.

Their bodies were so close, _so_ close she could almost reach an arm out across his thin chest and touch his protruding belly, it’s shape rising and falling under his crinkled vest and creased shirt. She wondered, suddenly, why she was even considering the action - she knew their meetings were nothing but a filthy tryst, a romp in the hay. She never sought him out, always waited for his knock on her door, never knowing how many days, weeks, _months_ it could be. It was _nothing_ , she told herself. Just good fun. _Dangerous_ fun.

She wanted to say something.

Peering out from behind her mussed hair, she watched as fingers clasped his belt back together, clothing was smoothed haphazardly, hat and gloves found from the floor.

His boots thudded to the carpet below.

“Will I - “ she tried to start.

The white, wide-brimmed hat was tugged firmly down upon his blonde tendrils.

“Get them _ideas_ out of your mind, girl.”

She knew he was right.

Body still clinging to her bed, all she could do was follow his form as he grabbed for his holsters by her door, his jacket soon following that whisked gently in the air before settling on his shoulders.

Neck twisted back and he _smirked_.

“Bye for now.”

And with that, he was gone through her door.

Just like always.

 


End file.
